Tiny invisible hands lob grenades of wistful accusation at my hovel. I'm too slow to shut the doors and the shrapnel still stings despite the scar-tissue of years. I frown and suck the marrow from the bone from the wound from hurt feelings. I drink til I'm full. Spitting out mouthfuls of tiny solipsist shards, like the seeds of a watermelon. Five miles might as well be one thousand when nothing feels like home. I lay very still on the floor of my sanctuary without white noise for maybe the first time in my life. The cliche and peaceful shrieking of wind in the trees tells me more than months of garbled media nonsense.
11:15 a.m. - 2017-03-06
Recent entries:
Tossi Propter - 2018-07-02
Summerscorch - 2018-07-02
Heartdesert - 2018-06-25
Elliptical - 2018-06-25
Back and Callback - 2018-06-18
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